The Ten Thousand (9 page)

As we trotted back to camp in the blazing heat, so different from the damp chill of Athens on the day we had left, Xenophon questioned Proxenus more closely about the prince's intentions.

"As it turns out," Proxenus said, "Cyrus does have one weapon that puts even my engines to shame. Did you know he recruited Clearchus?"

Xenophon looked surprised. "Clearchus—the Spartan general? I'd heard the Spartan Council had sentenced him to death."

"It appears Cyrus has rehabilitated him," Proxenus said dryly.

"Is he at Cyrus' camp now?"

"No, he's collecting additional troops farther east." Then noticing my puzzlement, Proxenus volunteered further information on this mysterious character.

"Clearchus is an exiled Spartan general whom Cyrus much admires for his military skills. He's a military genius, but the biggest asshole in the army. You'll find out why when you meet him. Physically he's a giant, bigger than you, Theo, and is in an evil mood that never ends. He spends all his time stalking about camp and takes pleasure in punishing violations of military discipline. He looks like hell and smells even worse—he munches garlic cloves like grapes and always keeps his pockets full of them. 'Clears the head and fends off the plague,' he says, and the stench of his breath could color the air around him. Before a battle, he spends half a day braiding and oiling his hair, which hangs to the middle of his back. I can't say it improves his appearance any, for all the work he puts into it."

"War isn't a beauty contest," Xenophon chided his cousin. "I don't care if he looks like a Cyclops, so long as he frightens the enemy."

"No need to fear there," Proxenus continued. "The enemy will be pissing on their sandals if he comes within a hundred yards of them, especially if he's upwind. As repulsive as he is, there's no man on earth as competent in battle."

He rode on in silence for a few minutes.

"You think I'm fond of war," he continued, "because I signed on with Cyrus without even a pause after Athens and Sparta made peace. Well, Clearchus has been moving from war to war for the past thirty years. The man can't live without war. He eats war and sleeps it. His men are terrified of him, but they follow him blindly and defend him to the death against any comments by outsiders, so watch what you say about him in front of others. You should thank the gods you'll be serving under me—Clearchus and his officers refuse even to use tents. They sleep in the open in the foulest weather, live on rancid bread and that disgusting Spartan 'black broth,' and ignore women, whether camp prostitutes or their own wives. His men use their shields as pillows and sleep with their spears, and each other, for comfort. I asked him about that once, thinking he was putting himself through hardship just for show, to keep up that insufferable Spartan image. He's Cyrus' top general, after all; he doesn't need to sleep in the mud. He scoffed at this. 'Shit,' he said, 'every lame-assed water boy with a grudge and every harem wench pissed off at Cyrus for sleeping with a different harem wench knows where to find him at night. That's why Cyrus needs thirty guards around his tent. And who can trust the guards? Thanks, I'll sleep in the mud.'"

"So how did Clearchus fall in with the prince?" Xenophon interrupted. "From what you say, there are no two men on earth more unalike."

"It's a bit complicated. Believe me, there is no love lost between those two, but they exploit each other for their own purposes. Clearchus approached the prince a year ago, about the same time I did. He was looking for a patron, and Cyrus knew that he was a brilliant soldier, and even better, that he was an outlaw—no chance of him losing heart and running back home to Sparta for his mother if things got tough. Cyrus gave him ten thousand
darics"
—here both Xenophon and I gasped, as this was a huge fortune—"to recruit a mercenary army, and Clearchus didn't spend an ounce of it on himself, although the prince would hardly have minded if he had. When word spread that he was paying good money for veteran soldiers, recruits began showing up in droves from every corner of the Greek world—every exiled, disillusioned, disgraced, hard-bitten Greek veteran that wanted a new start in life applied to Clearchus. He picked the cream of these men, paid them in advance, and trained an army, supposedly to suppress the Thracians, who had been marauding some of Cyrus' cities in the northwest. The Spartan elders sentenced him to death for pursuing an unauthorized war in disobedience of their orders—in Sparta that's a charge tantamount to treason. Clearchus didn't give a shit. He's like a hound tearing at a boar, he's unable to stop making war, and Sparta doesn't have enough wars to fight to keep him busy anymore.

"In any case, you've already seen some of his troops. He outfitted them all in new bronze helmets with horsehair plumes and scarlet cloaks—they all look like Spartan Peers. He armed them with those wicked short swords, new bronze shields and breastplates, and imported some drill sergeants from Sparta to put them through field training. Damn near killed them, and half of them were mustered out as being unfit. But within six months Clearchus had whipped the remainder into the strongest standing army in the Greek world short of Sparta's itself, and you can bet that young Cyrus is pleased. Everywhere the troops march the people fall on their knees and call them 'Cyrus' Greeks.' Well, Cyrus' Greeks whet their blades by destroying the Thracians, and now Clearchus is up-country collecting more soldiers. We'll be meeting up with them later on the march."

We rode along silently, digesting this portrait of our future colleague. I knew that Xenophon would be torturing himself with the irony of the situation. He had enlisted in the only viable Greek army short of Sparta's, at least partially with a view to redeeming his and his father's names—only to find himself serving with a man who was one of Athens' most hated enemies, a man whom Gryllus would sooner have spit on and cursed to three generations than have his son fight under. How strangely the gods ordain things, that the destinies of men as disparate as Clearchus and Xenophon are made to cross paths. One wonders whether Zeus had such a circumstance in mind when he offered Xenophon such favorable omens for traveling to Sardis. It is difficult to imagine that it was not foreseen.

Within three days of our arrival at Cyrus' camp, Proxenus had officially enlisted Xenophon as an officer and his personal aide-de-camp, and I was fitted for light cavalry armor and weaponry, and assigned the duty of bearing his brigade's pennant, a black flag depicting a snake shooting flame from its mouth. It was a role with which I was very pleased.

PROXENUS, XENOPHON, AND I entered the prince's compound, warily eyeing Cyrus' fierce-looking guards. Some thirty of these giants, seemingly chosen as much for their aesthetic qualities as for their strength and fearsomeness, were on duty at a single shift. Precisely half consisted of Ethiopians, with skin so black as to be almost blue, their huge heads shaved bald and polished by beeswax into shiny knobs decorated with a patterned system of raised tattoos. They carried enormous Persian scimitars and wore baggy pantaloons in the Persian style, and kept their massive chests bare, emphasizing the preternatural darkness of their skin. The other half of the guards, who were arranged in alternating order with the black Ethiopians around the tent, were enormous Scythians, pale of skin to the point of pinkness, almost albino, with shaved jaws and long, drooping mustaches. Twisted ropes of yellow hair hung to their waists, bound with colored strings, and they wore long, straight swords with wrought hilts, and gold-plated, snake-patterned bands on their biceps. Though both races were astonishing to look at, even to cosmopolitan Athenians like ourselves, the Scythians attracted particular attention, even though members of that tribe had long been employed in Athens as a mercenary police force. Scythian soldiers had been known to drink the blood of the men they killed in battle, and to take the scalps of their enemies by making a circular cut around the head above the ears, grasping the hair and then simply shaking the skull out the bottom, leaving the victim, whether dead or yet living, with a bloody, smooth-domed caul. Such scalps were required to be presented to their king for a share of any plunder, and were then tanned and hung from the soldier's bridle rein as mementos. If they were sufficient in number, they might even be sewn together into cloaks or arrow quivers. Such a fate was a terrible prospect to a Greek, who could not imagine presenting himself to the Boatman after death absent his hair, and possibly with skin from other parts of his body flayed and mounted in unspeakable fashion on a barbarian's kit. These men, alternating ranks of Scythians and Ethiopians, were Cyrus' personal bodyguard, and they eyed us suspiciously as we shouldered past them into Cyrus' tent.

Having heard so much about the prince, I was curious to meet him. Only twenty-four years old, Cyrus spoke flawless Attic Greek and Persian, as well as a half dozen other languages of the countries under his domain, and he was as well versed in the writings of the philosophers and men of science of both east and west as many others who had spent their entire lifetimes gaining such knowledge. His appearance was a study in contrasts: He was slight of build, beardless, and kept his chestnut-colored hair long and flowing in an unaffected style, quite unlike the pompous and effeminate, carefully coiffed nobles who served as his advisors and senior officers. The natural handsomeness of his face and the even olive color of his chest and arms was marred by a series of deep scars which Proxenus explained had been given him by an enraged she-bear in a hunt several years before. On the day of our audience with him, he was dressed quite plainly, even severely, in a short ceremonial robe with a military tunic underneath, a combination that would allow him to meet with anyone from diplomats and generals to the lowest private without wasting time changing clothes. This unpretentious demeanor greatly endeared him to his troops as well as to his civilian subjects. His arms were bare, exposing a long white scar running the length of his left tricep—whether from an earlier battle or from his brush with the bear I do not know. His robe was simple, with barely an inch of purple embroidery along the border, but was of the finest-combed Milesian wool. His sandals, though dusty, were of polished and stamped Egyptian leather with gold clasps. Cyrus' plain though elegant dress was that of a man who knows only one stall in the market—the very best.

The prince had been born after his father Darius had come to the throne as Great King of Persia, and so Cyrus ascribed to the ancient Persian tradition that he outranked his brother Artaxerxes who, though thirty years older, had been born while his father was still a mere subject. But the Great King, for reasons to which I was not privy, thought differently. He had arranged for the succession to revert to Artaxerxes, leaving Cyrus in the comparatively minor position of satrap of Ionia, equal in rank to a wily old scoundrel named Tissaphernes, who governed farther south in Asia Minor. Cyrus and Tissaphernes went back a long way—Tissaphernes had married Artaxerxes' daughter, making the old man a sort of relative to the prince, a nephew by marriage. He had also been a close advisor to King Darius, a constant presence in the courts and even in the royal family's living quarters, and Cyrus had detested the sway that the unctuous and crafty counselor held over his father. Three years earlier, sensing that the prince's power and influence were growing, Tissaphernes had denounced him on trumped-up charges to Artaxerxes, who had Cyrus arrested and ordered executed. Cyrus' mother saved his life and arranged for his removal from the court and his satrapy in Ionia, but the rage and humiliation Cyrus experienced from the episode had never left him. He now perceived the quest for power as an obsession, and the elimination of Tissaphernes and Artaxerxes as a ruling passion.

After entering Cyrus' tent with Proxenus and Xenophon I lingered near the door, while the other two advanced to Cyrus' chair and table. Cyrus amiably asked them to stand at ease, while he finished up some current business he had with his advisors. Since this was the first time I had ever visited the quarters of a wealthy Persian, I glanced around curiously, taking in the rich carpets and brocaded drapes, which kept the tent refreshingly dark and cool, and the heavily armed guards standing at motionless attention on either side of the door.

A tall, aquiline beauty slouched languorously behind Cyrus, gently fanning him with a large wicker screen and occasionally whispering orders to various serving girls and guards who kept up a never-ending parade of activity in the shadows between the table and a low rear exit, which communicated with another chamber of the tent. This consort, though breathtakingly beautiful, looked completely bored, and did not deign to make eye contact with any other person in the room.

I heard a rustling in the shadows in the opposite corner, though, and when I looked more closely, I noticed two dark, almond-shaped eyes peering at me with interest, coolly appraising me, and not averting themselves from my gaze as the eyes of Persian women usually did. I held their stare for long seconds, and was finally rewarded by the flashing of white teeth in a quick, shy smile as the girl silently giggled at her own audacity. She leaned forward slightly, her face emerging from the shadows into a thin beam of sunlight invading the tent through an open flap, and my heart stopped at her beauty—she was perhaps eighteen years old, her skin fresh and seemingly unmarred by any additional cosmetics, her only adornment being a bright yellow feather threaded carefully through her hair. Her face revealed an innocence and joy of expression that belied her inexplicable presence in Cyrus' tent, surrounded by fierce-faced Ethiopian guards and the bustling of military couriers. She smiled at me once more, then turned back to her task in the shadows—which I now saw involved handling a thick scroll. This astonished me more than anything else about her, for never before had I seen a woman reading.

Cyrus' advisors left after a few moments, and Proxenus stepped forward casually to the prince's table, informing him that he had brought a friend who was joining the expedition.

"Well done, Proxenus," the prince exclaimed. "Between you and Clearchus I'll have half of Greece fighting for me before we're through!" He flashed a friendly grin. "Xenophon of Athens, son of Gryllus?"

Xenophon seemed momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered and stiffly replied, "Yes, sir."

Cyrus stood looking at him for a moment in some amusement. "At ease, my man! By the gods, who do you think I am, King of Persia? I've heard much of your father—all reports of the very highest order, I assure you, though I don't imagine he would say the same about me." The prince chuckled and stood up to walk around his table to where we stood. I was surprised to note how short he was. I somehow always imagine men's influence to match their height, and never fail to be disappointed at how modest in stature most great men are, or for that matter, how tall I am.

"I understand you're a follower of Socrates of Athens?" Cyrus asked. Xenophon glanced questioningly at Proxenus, surprised again to find how much Cyrus already knew of him, but Proxenus gave a slight shrug as if to say that he was on his own with his responses. "Indeed, you have company here among us," continued Cyrus. "One of my Athenian generals, Menon, is also a disciple of his—perhaps you know him? I regret never having had the opportunity to sit at the great man's knee myself, as I have never been to Athens and Socrates has refused all invitations to visit me here in Sardis. But Menon has been kind enough to repeat for me as much as he can recall. Indeed, I was most impressed with Socrates' justification of a soldier's life, and I am told that Socrates himself is an old veteran, and a well-regarded one, besides. As I recall, he said that to fall in battle is in many ways a desirable thing. A man is granted a splendid funeral, worthy of an archon, even if he dies poor, and though penniless, he is praised by great orators, who do not offer compliments lightly."

Cyrus paused for a moment to murmur something to his tall consort, who slipped away through the rear flap without a word, and then he turned back with his broad grin. "In any event, there will be no danger of any of my men dying in penury," he laughed. "And," he said, looking straight at Xenophon, "I'm delighted to have a man of culture in my camp. The Spartans are the most dour, ignorant mob of bullies you can imagine, and frankly, Proxenus, your Boeotians are a bunch of country jackasses, though I'll admit your engines are a marvel. Xenophon, I hope your duties won't be so heavy that you can't find the time to join me for some good Greek wine in the evenings, to tell me what your friend Socrates' latest outrages are that have your city's leaders so riled up." Cyrus began to walk us to the door of his tent.

"I'd be delighted to join you at any time, your lordship," Xenophon replied stiffly.

"So," said Cyrus with a wry smile, "I presume that Proxenus has found an appropriate position for you in our little army? Something that will loosen you up, I hope, before you turn into a Spartan yourself. I can't promise more than a daric or two a month as pay, but you can count on wealth beyond your imagining in the form of booty, if we are successful."

Xenophon considered how to respond as the three of us left the tent together, but hearing the sound of steel sliding on leather, I turned to find that the prince, with a playful grin, had drawn his sword and was brandishing its tip under Xenophon's chin. Proxenus looked on in barely controlled alarm.

Before anyone could move, some passing, mischievous godlet, some playful spawn of a satyr who was eavesdropping on our conversation, triggered the defensive reflexes I had developed during the long ephebe training in Athens. Without thinking I stepped in front of Cyrus and gave him a tremendous blow to the wrist with the heel of my hand. His sword went flying high in the air, impaling itself in the roof of his tent and eliciting a small, frightened shriek from within, and as I finished my swipe, I placed a hammerlock with my forearm around the prince's neck. In a trice, eight enormous Ethiopian guards had locked their spear points into position inches away from my face, but I fixed my eyes on Xenophon's, as I had been trained to do, as if in a trance, waiting for him to give the word before I broke the neck of the Prince of Persia. It was only then that my reasoning caught up with my body, the nasty satyr scampered away chuckling, and I realized with horror what I had done.

Xenophon was petrified and hoarsely ordered me to let go, with visions of spending the rest of his life in a Persian dungeon before he had even started on his adventure; but Cyrus, after the initial moment of shock, burst out laughing.

"Well done!" the good-natured prince exclaimed as I let him go. Proxenus was white as a sheet. Cyrus rubbed his wrist and babbled incomprehensibly to his guards, telling them in their barbarian tongue not to skewer us. "I asked for that one! I meant to show you that if you're going to do battle against Asians, you'll have to get used to treachery. I should have known that the Spartans aren't the only fighters in my camp. If you surprise the enemy as well as you did me, you'll be a general before the year is out!"

Proxenus glared, but I could see a wave of relief wash over his face at the happy outcome of the mock attack, and perhaps a glimmer of pride. Cyrus clapped his hands on the two men's shoulders as he walked us back to our quarters, while I walked alongside, and Proxenus kept a wary eye trained on me to be sure I didn't further endanger his livelihood.

"Proxenus, we're marching in three days. Find Xenophon any armor and weapons he needs, and make sure he has a horse to ride instead of that mule I'm told he straggled into camp on. And don't neglect our touchy friend here," he said, nodding at me. "If there's anyone in this camp I want to keep happy it's him!" And flashing another of his grins, he strode off through the tent alleys, to the approval of his men and the exasperation of his trailing counselors and bodyguards.

That evening, after the day's business was complete and Xenophon, Proxenus and I were washing up in the officers' bath, I mentioned the brief vision I had had of the lovely girl in Cyrus' tent. Proxenus looked at me strangely for a moment, then sighed.

"So you're in lust with Asteria. Line up behind the rest of us."

Xenophon looked questioningly at him, and then quietly admitted, "I saw her too. Reading, no less."

Proxenus grunted. "She's a rare bird all right. Cyrus keeps an entire harem, of course—even travels with them on campaign, and it's usually that tall Phocaian bitch, the one standing behind him, that keeps his dog happy." He smirked for emphasis. "But it's Asteria the Milesian, the one you noticed, who is his favorite. She stays in his tent all the time, I hear, though not for the reasons you might think. And she's not a concubine—remember that at all costs. Cyrus once had a steward flogged for calling her one. Men say she's the daughter of one of old King Darius' satraps, and that she's somehow related to Cyrus as well—a niece or a cousin. She was raised in the harem in Persia along with the king's own children. She speaks Greek better than I do, recites Homer aloud when the prince wants to relax, and plays the lyre like a goddess. She also knows the medical arts, from studying with the king's physicians. I'm told she nursed Cyrus back to health after his bear adventure, when his own doctors had given him up for dead. Go ahead and admire her, but take care it's from a distance. If Cyrus catches you even looking cross-eyed at her, you'll be joining the ranks of his eunuchs faster than you can say, 'Bless me Uranus.' I have yet to meet a woman who's worth that."